


Six, Seven

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Injury, stiff upper lips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some cases, catching the criminal is more difficult than Watson lets on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six, Seven

**Author's Note:**

> References to the canon story The Six Napoleons. Various bits of violence. Stiff upper lips. Written in response to the following prompt: "Holmes doesn't realize that a moment of Watson BAMFery has gone wrong until after they get back to Baker Street and Watson is having trouble negotiating the stairs. "

 

_“The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.”_

  


That is what I wrote when I jotted down the details of the case I will call “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons,” should Holmes ever again permit me to publish.

That is not the entire story.

Holmes is quite right when he accuses me of changing certain elements of cases, although we do not agree about the degree, the scope, or the purpose of my changes. He accuses me of romanticism. I would argue that my changes are made for two reasons: to help ensure the anonymity of our actual clients, and to make a complete, satisfying _story_ for the reader. After all, readers of The Strand magazine are not looking for scholastic monographs on the art of detection. They want to read stories, ones with adventure, excitement, interesting characters, and a satisfying resolution.

This is also not quite true. I have a third reason for making certain changes, one I would never admit to Holmes, but is true nonetheless.

While I am perfectly willing to admit in print to some of our own failings – my general lack of intelligence (especially when compared to my friend), Holmes’ sometimes unfriendly demeanor – I am not willing to expose either of us to ridicule. Well, no more than can be helped. I am somewhat ridiculous when compared to Holmes, but then again, all other men are. And Holmes, being a man even with all of his extraordinary attributes, has some ridiculous aspects himself. But I see no reason to expose any of our weaknesses if I can help it.

Which is why I will never publish a true account of the capture of Beppo and the events that followed. But here, in the pages of my own private diary, I can note down the true facts of the matter, for it is not something I wish to forget.

Capturing Beppo was not the simple matter I make it sound. While Holmes did indeed spring on him like a tiger, Beppo himself fought like a savage, maddened elephant. He flung the three of us about like rag dolls. He kicked and bit and more than once nearly wrested himself entirely away. Somehow, one or the other of us always managed to keep a hand on him, hanging on and impeding his progress until another could rejoin the fray.

I found myself sprawled onto the ground once again, and rolled to my feet, feeling a twinge in my leg. As I did so, I saw Lestrade stagger back, felled by a fist to the face. Holmes’ slighter weight was no match for Beppo, but he somehow managed to keep from being flung off as the Italian twisted like a madman.  Beppo clawed at Holmes’ face with one hand, even as I glimpsed the other dart towards his coat pocket.  I had a sudden remembrance of Venucci, and the gaping wound that had ended the life of one of the ‘greatest cut-throats in London.’

I did not stop to think further. I flung myself at Beppo just as he withdrew a long knife. The blade gashed along my arm before snagging in the stout tweed of my coat. A lucky twist wrenched the handle away from Beppo before he could thrust again, and then Lestrade was there. Somehow he managed to get a handcuff around one of the struggling man’s wrists. Getting the other hand manacled cost me a bitten hand, another blow to Lestrade’s face, and Holmes a twisted elbow, but at last we managed it. Holmes directed a swift blow to one of Beppo’s knees as the lock clicked in place, and the Italian fell, beaten at last.

Holmes half-sat, half-fell upon Beppo to keep him down. Lestrade blew his whistle, and from the instant response of two others, I surmised that commotion had already alarmed the regular constables on the beat. It was as well. Holmes looked shaken, Lestrade was visibly battered and unsteady on his feet, and I could feel my own warm blood coursing down my hand.

“Watson.” Holmes’ voice was sharp with alarm. I realized that the same light that had guided Beppo to this spot to shatter the bust now plainly illuminated our sorry state. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s just a scratch, Holmes. Well, and a bite. I’ll need to make sure that’s thoroughly irrigated. You’re all right?”

“Yes, fine.” My calm answer in turn soothed him, although I noted him quashing Beppo’s next effort to rise with especial vigor.

“Good.” I turned to Lestrade, who already had visible swelling around one eye. “We’ll need to get ice on that right away, Inspector, if you want to be able to see out of that eye by morning.”

Lestrade winced. “It’ll blacken no matter what we do, won’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He sighed, but said no more, as the constables were upon us.

I did not lie to Holmes when I said the knife-wound was a scratch. My coat had protected me from the worst of the blow. Holmes ascertained as much himself, on our ride back to Scotland Yard. And the bite, while painful, was a trivial matter overall.

What I had not realized, not until after the excitement of the fight had drained away, was how battered I was in other ways. By the time we reached the Yard, I felt stiff and achy all over, and every one of my years besides. Worse, my old leg-wound flared and ached in ways it hadn’t done in many years. But seeing Holmes spring out of the cab, seemingly as fresh as a daisy, and Lestrade bound out with nearly the same energy, I summoned up every bit of fortitude and did my best to emulate their example. It helped that Beppo’s struggles provided a distraction, for I felt how poorly I managed it.

Fortunately, the combination of the late hour and the relative straightforward matter of Beppo’s guilt meant that we did not have to stay long at the police-station. I took advantage of the presence of the on-call police surgeon to have my arm attended to, telling Holmes – quite truthfully – that it was far easier to have someone with two good arms bind it, and between his elbow and my cut, we neither of us had two good arms. I did not mention that I also wanted an opportunity to ingest a pain-reducing powder, if the man had one to hand. Neither Holmes nor Lestrade seemed to need one, after all.

Holmes was cheerful on the cab ride home, as he so often is when the conclusion of a case is upon us, but he is the only one who can foresee the solution. With the pain-reducer taking effect, I felt able to keep up with his mood, although I could not match it. I still ached too much. And I could not help feeling some amount of shame. Lestrade was several years older than I, yet when we left him at the police-station, he seemed full of vigor, and not the least bit tired. Holmes was younger than I, true, but he had taken the full brunt of the majority of the fight with Beppo, and despite his twisted elbow, was bubbling over with good spirits and energy.

Whereas I felt every bump and bruise, and more besides. At the moment, I wanted nothing more than a brandy and my bed. What kind of companion in adventure was I?

I feared the answer to that question was simple: _An old one_. Maybe too old. And yet – no, surely not. I pushed the thought aside, and smiled at Holmes’ latest sally.

The thought remained banished until I exited the cab. Holmes had already sprang out and gone up the stairs to our door. As I stepped out, I felt an agonizing shaft of pain dart up my leg. The area around my old leg-wound cramped and spasmed. My old shoulder-wound throbbed in sympathy.

For a long moment, I could not even move. I do not know how I managed not to cry out. Something in my face must have reflected some part of my pain, for the cab-man went from looking cross and tired to alarmed. “I say, guv, are y’alright?”

I forced myself to take a deep breath, and then another. The pain receded slightly, and I took a cautious step. It hurt like blazes, but my leg held. I gave the cab-man a shaky smile. “Thank you. It’s just been a long night.” I handed him his fare, and he immediately lost interest in anything else.

Using both hands on the rail made the outdoor steps manageable, but brought yet more pain in a different way. I did not need to look down at the bandage on my arm to know that the strain had started the cut bleeding again. And there were still seventeen steps to manage past these, the ones to our sitting-room, where Holmes was no doubt already stirring up the fire. I would have to say at least a few words to him before I could retire to my room.

And I dared not linger, or Holmes would certainly notice something wrong.

I closed the door behind me, and forced myself to walk towards the steps as normally as I could. I could manage this. There were only seventeen of them.

Holmes appeared, sticking his head beyond our sitting-room door. “Watson? Did the cab-man give you any trouble?”

“No, it’s all right,” I answered distractedly. “I’ll be right up.”

“Don’t dawdle, old fellow; I’ve already poured the brandy.”

Dawdling was hardly the issue. Stung, I felt pride and pique flood through me, helping battle back the pain and giving me the energy to start up the stairs. One, two, three… My leg held, even with only one hand on the rail. I didn’t dare use both, not with Holmes standing there. At least I assumed he was there; I didn’t dare look, either.

“Watson?”

I swore inwardly as I heard the question in Holmes’ voice. “You’ll wake Mrs. Hudson.” I tried to say it normally, but the words escaped me with more of a gasp as I ascended the fifth step. Six, seven…

On the seventh step, my leg gave way. I barely managed to seize the rail with my other hand. It was only my grip on it that kept me from tumbling down.

“Watson!” I did not see him descend, or hear him approach, but suddenly Holmes’ arms were around me, helping bear me up. “My dear fellow, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt? You told me you were only scratched!”

“It’s my old wound, in my leg,” I gritted out over the agony and shame pulsing through me. “I’m afraid tonight’s exertions have been a bit much for it.”

“My dear Watson, small wonder. I feel as if I’ve been run over by a cab myself, and I haven’t had a blood-letting.” Surprised, I looked up, and saw the truth of it in his face. Holmes looked as exhausted as I felt, and this close, I could see the lines of pain and strain around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.  “Now lean on me as much as you need to, my dear fellow, and take as much time as you need. Between us, we’ll manage well enough. We always do.”

The pain was still there, but I felt a weight drop from my shoulders all the same. “Of course, Holmes. You’re right, as always.”

And together, we made our slow, aching, painful way up the remainder of the stairs and into our sitting-room.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 14, 2012


End file.
